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To feel that thou hadst not incurr'd
The deep compunction, bitter shame, Of prostituting gifts conferr'd
To strengthen Virtue's hallow'd claim.
Than—" damn’d with everlasting fame,”
To be the Bard of simple swains,—
And soothe with sympathy their pains;
To paint with feeling in thy strains
And be, though free from classic chains,
Her grateful, and her lasting debt ;-
That pining care, and keen regret,
Thoughts which the fever'd spirits fret, And slow disease,—'twas thine to bear ;
And, ere thy sun of life was set, Had won her Poet's grateful prayer. 'Tis now TOO LATE ! the scene is clos'd,
Thy conflicts borne,-thy trials o'er ;And in the peaceful grave repos’d
That frame which pain shall rack no more ;
Peace to the Bard whose artless store Was spread for Nature's lowliest child ;
Whose song, well meet for peasant lore, Was lowly, simple, undefild,
Yet long may guileless hearts preserve
The memory of thy verse and thee ;-
The arm of labour toiling free,
By cottage-hearth, by greenwood tree,
Written Iny an Oficer long resident in India, on his return 10 England.
The following Stanzas are worthy of being committed to memory by young and old. They paint life and the fallacy of human expectations in their true colours, remove the veil which fancy had thrown over them, and shew how different are the mellowed and subdued feelings of declining age from the ardour of youth, and its vivid imaginings of undying bliss.-ED.
The fair in form, the pure in mind, -
Where all are strange, and none are kind;
That pants, that struggles for repose:
Where earthly sighs and sorrows close.
Years have past o'er me like a dream,
That leaves no trace on memory's page: I look around me, and I seem
Some relic of a former age. Alone, as in a stranger-clime,
Where stranger-voices mock my ear; I mark the lagging course of time, Without a wish,—a hope, a fear!
3. Yet I had hopes, and they have fled;
And I had fears were all too true: My wishes too but they are dead,
And what have I with life to do! 'Tis but to bear a weary load,
I may not, dare not, cast away;
Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep; Whose worth my soul delights to trace,-' .
Whose very loss ’tis sweet to weep;
With none to chide, to hear, to sce:
To hold communion with the dead; And fancy consecrates the spot
Where fancy's softest dreams are shed.
I see each shade, all silvery white,
I hear each spirit's melting sigh;
And the pale morning chills my eye.
But soon the last dim morn shall rise,
The lamp of life burns feebly now,-
And smooth my cold and dewy brow.
Nor stone, nor monumental cross,
THE LAST MAN.
WRITTEN BY T. CAMPBELL.
Our observations on the Last Man will be found in our preliminary view of Modern Literature.
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Adown the gulf of Time !
As Adam saw her prime!
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
Around that lonely man!
In plague and famine some!
To shores where all was dumb!
Yet prophet like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass’d by. Saying we are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand, thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow,
What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
The vassals of his will;—
For all those trophied arts
Entail'd on human hearts.